


His Mouth Is Filled with Honey

by Lauralot



Series: Your Mouth Is Like a Funeral [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Emotional neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, No Aftercare, Self-Harm, Sub Drop, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow knows order only comes from pain, which makes his desire for affection all the more sickening.</p><p>Or: Brock is an eager and needy sub who is very emotionally invested in their relationship. He needs it to function.</p><p>Pierce, however, has little interest in it beyond getting his release and is not at all attached to Brock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Mouth Is Filled with Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bofurrific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/gifts).



> Written for this [kink meme prompt:](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=325707#cmt325707)
> 
> _Brock is an eager and needy sub who is very emotionally invested in their relationship. He needs it to function._
> 
> _Pierce, however, has little interest in it beyond getting his release and is not at all attached to Brock._
> 
> It is not explicitly described, but this story does reference a relationship between the Winter Soldier and Alexander Pierce, which is obviously non-consensual in nature. Also, warnings for a lack of aftercare and generally bad relationship practices.

For Alexander Pierce, it’s a matter of practicality. 

He has needs. He has an asset perfectly trained to fulfill those needs without any desire for intimacy or aftercare, but while he has the power to bring that asset out whenever he likes, he lacks the inclination. It isn’t always worth the effort to come up with an excuse to thaw the Soldier, to find an opportunity to slip away with him, whenever Pierce wants to get off. 

So Brock Rumlow, always available and always eager, is an acceptable substitute. 

If only he weren’t so needy. 

Pierce values loyalty, of course. And while it has long since ceased to excite him, there is satisfaction in the lengths HYDRA’s most dedicated members will go to in order to ensure their place in the Secretary’s good graces. He’d thought, when they began, that Rumlow’s tendency to linger after the fact and his hopeful little looks when he thought Pierce didn’t see were about ambition. He remembers all too well the moment he realized it was affection: on an impulse he now regrets, he had pulled Rumlow, panting and bruised, up from the foot of the bed and kissed him. The light in Rumlow’s eyes when he pulled away, as though he’d been starving and Pierce was made of milk and honey, has never fully faded. 

Pierce would have preferred if their interactions were an attempt at career advancement on Rumlow’s part. 

It’s not quite repulsive, but certainly pathetic. How can a man who so fully and blindly believes that order only comes from pain still stare up from between Pierce’s legs with such hope and need rolling off of him? It isn’t a desire for release; it’s not physical sensation that keeps Rumlow hanging back in the room after each meeting and briefing, his want poorly concealed on his face and his words—“Sir?”—questioning and over-enthused. 

“Dismissed, Agent Rumlow,” Pierce will say, and no matter how many times he fails to provide whatever connection the man desires, Rumlow’s disappointment will be nearly tangible in spite of his struggle to contain it. It isn’t a turn on, letting him down, not really. It’s more of an annoyance, but not so much as to drive Pierce to seek out anyone else. 

Sometimes Pierce doesn’t dismiss him. Sometimes he gives a place and a time, or mutters into Rumlow’s ear exactly what he’ll do to him once he has the agent cuffed to his headboard. He tells himself that if he sees something swell through Rumlow at his words, it’s only lust. 

On occasion Rumlow returns from the field injured, skin so prettily marred with bruises and gashes that Pierce thinks he could have avoided if he had put forth the effort. It tastes of desperation, bitter and obscene, and it makes his lips curl. Is he meant to care? To hold Rumlow close or to strike him? The only thing he feels is irritation at the thought of having to pull the agent for psychological evaluation; the team performs better with Rumlow as their commander, even the asset. 

The asset. Pierce has a cold and amusing thought, and the next time the asset is thawed and Pierce knows that Rumlow will be sniffing around like a touch-starved dog, he presses his lips to the asset’s, soft and slow, with all the bite swallowed back. 

The next time he takes Rumlow, the man is dripping with exertion, eyes tearing with what must be more than just physical stress. He clenches tight and pushes hard and it is almost as if Pierce is the one being fucked instead of the other way around. There’s power in Rumlow’s desire, a sharp beauty in his despair, and for a moment Pierce considers really hurting him. How far does it reach, this thirst to prove himself, this longing to be needed? How much pain would it take to overload the desire? 

But Pierce doesn’t care enough to try that, either. He wants to get off, not to make a production of it. It’s nice when Rumlow flinches—he tenses into the pain always, never away—but there’s no sense in complicating what ought to be a purely physical exchange with even more emotion than Rumlow’s already dragged onto the table. 

When they’re finished, catching their breath, Pierce eyes Rumlow. The man is sprawled on the sheets—stained with release, but Renata can deal with that tomorrow—the expanse of his back mottled with bruising, facing away from the Secretary. Pierce prefers it that way: it’s significantly less annoying when he can’t see the hope. 

If Rumlow were the asset, Pierce would wipe him off. He might even lead the Soldier to the kitchen and let the asset rest his head on Pierce’s knee while he slips little bits of food between those perfect lips. (The look in the eyes of a man with no memory of eating when he first tastes a strawberry is intoxicating.) The asset is fragile, valuable, and it’s in everyone’s best interests and safety to occasionally go through the motions of praise and affection with him. Rumlow hasn’t had all coping methods fried from his mind, and he is, ultimately, replaceable. 

Still, maybe a word of two of praise or an imitation of affection would be worth it to keep the agent grounded. Maybe if he received the odd tender touch or word, he wouldn’t be so desperate. 

“Agent Rumlow.” 

“Sir?” It’s dark in the bedroom. Pierce shouldn’t be able to see the glimmer of longing in Rumlow’s eyes but he can. 

It’s distasteful. He adjusts his robe, stands. “Good night.” Pierce is shuffling off for a glass of milk and doesn’t bother to watch Rumlow’s hope shatter—shatter, but never dissipate—because he’s seen that process often enough to have it memorized. 

HYDRA has no room for weakness.


End file.
